The Legacy of Lanico: Reclaiming Odana

by E Cantu Alegre

  It was just the two of them. Welled tears slid down her face.

  “Marin, though not mine by blood, is my son,” Lanico said, taking up her emotion in himself. “I know everything about him. Every nightmare, every tear, every interest. You and he, you’ll grow into one another—there’s so much about him that reminds me of you. There is a part of him that kept you alive.” He looked out over the expanse. “For years I didn’t know if I hated . . . or if I loved that.” He had loved her though, always. It had always been her. He turned to look into her eyes again. One hundred years or only a day, it made no matter. You have always been mine.

  But there it was, the mutual understanding that in that moment they shared. Marin was their son. They shared that very thought, and they knew it. She felt her heart melt a little at this. Since his having healed her, his heightened connection to her now, she also understood Lanico’s unspoken feelings about her, the unspoken love . . . and she felt the same.

  He leaned in closer to her. Their legs touched. He licked his lips, thinking. Looking at her mouth then flicking his gaze up to hers, wanting, he dared to slowly raise his hand and caress the scar on her lip with his thumb. His fingers, rough against her jaw, cradled the curve of her face. He felt her take a breath.

  Her eyes hovered on his fingers and then slowly drifted to his glowing cyan, so intense they bored into her very thoughts. Oh, Father Odan, she could lose herself in them forever. A spell. She fluttered her gaze to his mouth and edged in nearer. A slight roguish quirk to the corners of his mouth. Her own lips slightly parted, ready to receive. She took in the scent of him.

  No. A voice whispered to her mind. She needed to focus on this mission. We’re to take things slowly. That is what we discussed. For Marin. And, we have time—If they survived; she avoided sharing.

  She blinked back into focus and slowly backed away from his lure. It was different out here, with ultimate privacy. They never would have gotten beyond passionate kisses at Greta’s home. But out here, alone, there would be no stopping them from . . .

  Lanico had a brief look of confusion and cleared his throat. She broke free from the spellbinding trance that would have had her in the throes of passion in only a few simple calculated movements. She steadied her focus to the vast before them, their future. Different. She was different from the untamed Treva she used to be. The confinement, the long years, the promise of motherhood . . .

  Her voice, normal again, broke the spell: “We need to beat them there. I think if we can set out before the sun rises, perhaps we can—"

  “Tre—"

  She inhaled before turning her face to him, fighting her feelings. In the battle to come, either one of them could die. She couldn’t lose him again.

  Their gazes connected, and he thought fiercely at her, Marry me. A command. A request. A dream.

  She understood this, felt this. It was hard to say yes—to marriage. There wasn’t anything she wanted more than to be married to him, her Prince. Her losses, though, they had been too great. The battles would still have to be won. The danger—it had to be distanced this time. She didn’t respond to his question—to his demand. No promises.

  At that moment, he knew. He decided against talking about his feelings for her, even for their shared future. It truly was too difficult. He breathed, yielding. “Yes, let’s move out before the sun rises.”

  She nodded in an unspoken Thank you, the curve of her sharp chin catching the last rays of rosy sun. This was difficult enough, and pondering Marin, or her feelings, proved too much for her warrior’s heart.

  He glanced back at their fire.

  “Lan, we’re going to have to kill it soon”—she gestured to the fire—"to avoid being visible tonight.”

  He glanced at the leftover rabbit meat still sizzling and nodded: “In a bit.”

  Their bellies were full and they rested, peaceful, for now. The fire crackled as they sat in silence.

  Treva suddenly sucked on her teeth for a piece of meat stuck somewhere, and the sound made him blink slowly. He loved her well beyond her uncouth manners. He truly believed she’d become his emerald Queen, but she would be his warrior Queen, after all. She’d been a warrior since she was a young girl following her brother’s death. Her father raised her as such.

  “Someone had to protect the farm from Mysra attacks and raids,” she had once told him. Her father had long retired from the Odana Military as a Knight, to take up farming. As soon as she was old enough to join up, she did, and growing up in the Odana Military only served to enhance her . . . lack of manners.

  Treva had such dedication to the kingdom, to him. She would make a wonderful Queen. He didn’t tell her this. No. Not yet. She didn’t want promises. But he felt that now that they had each other again, there would be time for that later. He glanced back at her lovely, fixed face, and sighed. She was now digging at her fingernails with her silver dagger—the one she kept between her breasts, another place he’d like to become familiar with. Her eyes sparkled up to meet his, and a charming smile spread across her face. She was beautiful, and deadly, and honestly . . . a gauche mess. Charming, he thought to himself. A unique Queen, indeed. Uncouth, but at least she’d be familiar to most everyone.

  As if to draw his thoughts to a close, she tucked the dagger back into its warmed sheath. Lanico exhaled, and that was better than the laugh he actually felt trying to rise from within.

  After Lanico killed the campfire, as Treva liked to say, the stars seemed so close they were almost within reach. The cool of the night settled, and next to one another, they lay on their backs looking up with glowing eyes. The indigo sky was laced with twinkling diamonds. Treva moved in closer to him, to share the warmth. He didn’t mind—she was the only Knight that he’d ever want to snuggle with on the field, though.

  Their sides were against one another, and she nuzzled drowsily to lay her head in the crook of his arm, a corded, muscled pillow. She draped her own arm over his chest and her hand curved over his solid pectoral muscle. How nice it would be to grab onto it and claw. “Mmmm,” she hummed. Wait!

  No. Slowly.

  Oh, fires . . . But her body ached for him, for the feeling of his skin . . . but . . .

  They were to come together slowly. I’ll ride him later, she decided. She nodded slightly to herself in agreement. If we live, it’ll be my reward for winning the battle.

  His scent of leather and lavender wrapped around her with his warmth, the comfort he gave in the settling chill, with the last crackles from the dimming wood.

  He placed his hand over hers. It was a bold move, but, given the other night and his healing, he’d been even bolder with her before. They were meant to be together. He believed this. He knew this. She felt the same, and he knew this as well—but they had this battle, and if they lived, there was another larger battle yet to come—the battle for the castle, for his kingdom. Was it worth losing love again? He toiled in his thoughts, in his unsettled emotions.

  They both lay awake, quiet. There were no words tonight. A battle would be upon them too soon and any words spoken about this, about their feelings for one another, could prove too costly. This was to be the extent of their affections. It was survival as well.

  Eventually, sleep fell upon them, and the glow of gold and cyan faded as they closed their eyes. First hers, and then did his.

  Morning came. Treva remained snuggled against Lanico, and he smiled in his sleep—dreams of sunshine against her tan face. They danced the waltz. She in an emerald dress—the music was real. The song, so familiar to him. A ballroom . . .

  A butterfly flittered and landed on his nose. He crinkled his face it but the butterfly remained, its tiny legs prickling at his skin. His hand rose to slap it away. At the smack to himself, his eyes thrust open. Bright sun rays invaded the sleep that had set in. The butterfly managed to escape and fluttered away.

  They’d overslept!

  He sat up quickly. Treva slumped from off his chest, her head thudding to the unforgiving ground.
He’d forgotten she was there.

  “Hey, Lan! What the f—it’s morning!” She rubbed the side of her head. The brilliant sky blinded her, interrupting the string of curses she was about to launch at him.

  “Yes, damn it, we overslept!” he grumbled as he rose and brushed his body of unseen dust and offered a hand to help her up. She accepted and, once hoisted, began to gather their things. She moved in a flash, and it didn’t take long to pack up and ride out—much like the time when Izra left her at a tavern so many years ago – a long complicated story Lanico knew nothing about.

  They moved fast.

  Too much time had been wasted already.

  Treva’s years of riding horses on her farm had molded her into a fine equestrienne, and as they rode, she practiced her long-abandoned tricks. Sure, her legs were sore, but oh, she welcomed it. It was a familiar but oddly comfortable pain. After all these years the muscle memory remained, drilled into her very bones and the rhythm of her heart, blended with the strides of the horse.

  Lanico marveled at her ability to turn and ride sideways. She could stand, bracing herself against the gallops beneath her feet, the muscles of her legs pronounced through the fabric of her leggings. The food, the concoctions, the healing, the training. Physically, she was almost back to her rightful self. She concentrated as if Lanico weren’t even there. Her focus and training were solely on the horse. It was a meditation in the yellow brilliance, the spirit of the animal breathing beneath her—alive and free.

  At one point she poised herself to hang from the side of the horse, upside down with crossed arms. She caught Lanico’s eye and smiled mischievously, her small frame bouncing against LaCriox’s velvet sides.

  Okay. You’re just showing off now. The seasoned General in him, though determined, loosed a half-smile at her. He couldn’t do that, any of that. She hadn’t known any amount of fun, for far too long. And despite her shenanigans, they were still making progress across the grassy plains. He supposed it was a fun distraction on the way to their destination, on their way to blood and death. Skilled horse-riding was needed—he didn’t mind this sort of . . . practice?

  If he was honest with himself, he probably would have let her get away with just about anything. Luckily, she was every bit of the warrior he was, perhaps even more, and knew how far to take her fun.

  Her loose emerald hair swept the tall yellow grasses she rode swiftly through them.

  Closer.

  Closer they rode to battle. It would be upon them soon.

  Chapter Fifty

  Secret hope

  Dawn arrived, blanketing the purple peaks of the Odana Mountains with a rosy blush. The WynSprigns submissively gathered alongside the mountain to enter the Purple Hall mine in their expected uniform order. Then, the line that they had formed going up the hill slowed. The WynSprign slaves stood silent, staring off into nothingness, as usual. Their bodies and minds had been beaten and made weary. Emptied shells. But this morning was different. There was a glint of hope after the latest news reached the encampment, and they warily watched their guard.

  Nizen anxiously counted down the row of slaves outside the mine. His thick muscled calves thudded at his slow gait. His red cape lay flat against his broad back. It seemed he took great effort in making sure not to upset an already outraged Grude. Such a large mass of Mysra warriors had left for the WynSprign village that there were not enough available to assist in controlling the slave population. He had an air of determination about him that he was prepared to be harder and punish more severely to keep them all under control and he was already notoriously wicked in his punishments.

  The line was lengthy, and with only Nizen to conduct them, the work took longer. The ends of the line hummed as whispers flitted back and forth, out of his earshot.

  “They made it,” Lika whispered with a cocked head to her trainee, Trilla, who stood behind her in line. Lika shot a quick glance back, her round face framed by her tight brown bonnet. Trilla was new to the Purple Halls, her former work had been to assist Cantata, cleaning the castle, and helping in the kitchen on occasion. Despite Cantata’s grumbling about losing her servant, the rotation was deemed very necessary by Grude, under the heavy need for mining. He hadn’t spared a soul in his endeavors.

  That was likely why they paired the two. Lika worked in the mine, but also had laundering duties, which she preferred—scrubbing away the evils of this place of slavery. When younger, she had also once served in the castle. She had been head laundress and was charged to arrange clothing for their royal highnesses, for both daily and formal attire.

  Trilla did not want to end up like Lika, sentenced to a life of mine work. But due to the increased demand for trillium, she was now stationed to work there, and she was most displeased that she now had to do this lowly work. Cantata would not be happy fetching her own linens and food, and Trilla could not imagine what would become of the work of cleaning, for it never ceased. Now, when Trilla returned to her cleaning duties, if she returned to them, her work would be daunting, dust having accumulated in her absence.

  “Who?” Trilla whispered, continuing the conversation. She looked straight ahead toward Lika.

  “The lost slaves,” Lika whispered excitedly. “It seems that the Mysra guards cannot find them. They couldn’t find Treva or Anah before, either, and now it’s said that these six others have gone.” She quivered slightly with excitement, her bonnet wiggling.

  Trilla swiped stray hair from her brow. What a waste of my air in even asking, but . . . She held a smart smile on her face and asked, “Where do you think they’ve gone?”

  Lika was about to answer but paused to wait for Nizen to pass them by. Talking wasn’t allowed.

  “And 73! 74! 75! . . .” Nizen’s thick voice counted off, passing them. His small assistant, Grimle, walked next to him with a paper in his hand. Their steps and his counting faded down the line.

  “Who knows?” Lika leaned back and continued to whisper: “The point is, they’re not here.” Her cheeks flushed pink.

  “So, what are you suggesting?” whispered Miken, a tall, large-built slave who stood in front of Lika. He was looking over his shoulder at them, holding his body forward as Nizen expected.

  “What I’m suggesting”—Lika puffed in some annoyance—"is that since the Mysra are fewer, we’d have a better chance to outsmart or overrun this place. We could probably free ourselves.” A smile grew and raised her round cheeks. “They haven’t been able to track them down yet.”

  Miken loosed a hum: “I wouldn’t have to haul tons of trillium any longer, or be the one what takes a beatin’ from Nizen’s tirades.” Miken moved to crack his massive back.

  Gesturing to Miken’s tunic, Lika explained to Trilla in hushed whispers, “That one gets the worst of it—it’s rare he wears a tunic without bloodstains.” She went on to tell that some days he was beaten horribly, that Nizen used him as a mere object upon which to take out his anger. He was the largest WynSprign and could handle the beating and still be forced to work the next day.

  Lika breathed deeply and told Trilla, “After Grude rails at Nizen any given day—we hear of it through the grapevine—later that night Nizen beats Miken so violently we have more than once thought he was going to die.” Trilla knew from the sufferings of the castle slaves that here, too, the hushed sounds of night were filled with soft whimpers and cries; fearful of the horrible sounds of approaching death. “One whole night we didn’t know if he had lived or died,” Lika said.

  Miken over heard her and whispered back, “I wished that I had died...”

  “Eveyone in!” Nizen belted from the mine entrance. The slaves straightened and walked on without delay. Guilt and embarrassment rested on Nizen’s shoulders. He might as well have freed the missing slaves himself. He was determined to change the way he handled the guard duties.

  “Grimel”—Nizen barked and looked down at his assistant. He then straightened and made sure his red cape lay elegantly on his shoulders. Wicked but always dre
ssed to perfection, Nizen eyed the passing slaves entering the mine. “Tonight, we’re to enforce stricter rules.” His was voice a low grumble to Grimel to avoid eager ears. “There will be no more Mysra guards hanging round the fire pits at night.” He leaned towards Grimel—"I expect they will actually patrol, moving forward.” His neck muscles pulsed. “I’m not above punishing them with thrashes, either.”

  Grimel leaned his head closer to Nizen to hear, nodded, and scribbled notes hurriedly.

  Nizen continued: “If any more go missing, you and I will be to blame.” He paused, pondering the severity of the punishment. “The last thing I need is for Grude to be even more upset with me. He’d see us both hanged, wriggling like worms on a fisher’s line.” Nizen’s eyes widened as he raised his hand to the base of his throat.

  The last of the WynSprigns hurried into the mine. A waiting guard quickly entered behind them. There would be far fewer guards patrolling the mine and the WynSprign slave encampment now, so the guards had to be strategically placed and their movements had to be coordinated carefully. The guards at the tower must be rotated in a timely fashion, the trenches surrounding the outskirts of the encampment, monitored. Orchestrating these measures had created anxiety for Nizen.

  Grimel quickly scribed Nizen’s thoughts, the inked pen in his hand scratching wildly. They walked down from the hill to the adjacent WynSprign camp, now quiet and empty.

  Seeing him still making notes, Nizen rolled his eyes and turned to walk toward the castle. Must he notate everything? Nizen wondered in agitation. Perhaps his temper was testy because he was famished. He was due for his morning meal at the castle—which normally would have been delivered, but due to the shortage of slaves, he found himself having to walk to fetch it himself. Yet another annoyance.